


Young Punk in a Fur Coat

by Hoodoo



Series: The Bar at the End of the Universe [3]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drinking, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fucking, Kissing, Mostly Pwp, Passing mention of The Flesh Curtains, Recreational Drug Use, Teensy amount of set up, fur coat, mention of cunnilingus, young Punk Rick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 11:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12793380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: You don’t need an addiction to Kalaxian Crystals; you already have an addiction to Ricks and that’s plenty.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's an infinite number of Ricks, so why wouldn't you want to continue to hook up and have some fun with them?
> 
> [Due to the kind support for my other fic ("What's a Girl Like You . . ."), my muse is gibbering in delight and I've decided to write more. Thank you kindly, I love you all, and hope you enjoy!]

You’d seen a lot of different Ricks, but this one . . .

He hadn’t even registered on your radar (“Rick-dar,” the bouncer jokingly referred to it) even though he’d swaggered in like he owned the place and seemed to take up more space than his skinny body should occupy.

You, being distracted by serving a couple that’d come in before and having to try to get the goddamn new tanks in place and hooked up under the bar, didn’t even acknowledge him until one of the waitresses flicked you on the top of your head to get your attention, then subtly indicated you had a customer without a drink in his hand.

Wiping your hands and cursing not quite under your breath about the bloody tanks, you abandon them for a moment and go to attend the newcomer.

“What can I get you?” you ask, dropping a napkin in front of him. “If you want something on tap, you’re going to have to give me a couple more minutes.”

“Vodka. Plutonian. Neat.”

You nod and turn away to scan the shelves for the bottle.

To your right, the couple is whispering to each other.

“—yeah, I think you’re right! It is him!”

“No, it can’t be. Why would the bassist from the Flesh Curtains be here?”

“Go ask him!”

“No, you go ask him!”

You snag the bottle of Plutonian vodka plus a glass, and turn back to the man who ordered it.

He had to have heard the couple’s conversation, but doesn’t acknowledge them.

Setting the glass down and popping the top of the bottle, you pour the slightly opalescent liquid into it. You stop at two finger’s worth, then turn away again. 

“Th-thanks, doll.”

The stutter gives you pause.

Setting the bottle back on the shelf, you look over your shoulder at him again. 

“Let me know when you want another.”

“Shouldn’t be-won’t be long.”

You hope your scrutiny of him isn’t too obvious, but focused on his drink, he doesn’t seem to notice. 

He’s young. Much younger than any other Rick you’ve ever seen before. His face is smooth. Wrinkles under his eyes are nonexistent; in their place is heavy black eyeliner. His hair is blue, of course, but its natural spikes are partially slicked back. He’s wearing a scandalously open top that barely qualifies as a shirt, exposing a chest that you’re intimately familiar with—although this one is more muscled than what you’re used to. You can’t see his pants, but can imagine they’re the same shade of leather as the collar around his neck. The whole outfit is covered by a shapeless, shaggy fur coat that may or may not have been made out of a bear.

“Refill here, doll, when you’ve fin-finished checking out the m-merchandise?”

Your—what you thought was—subtle inspection had been spotted.

You play it cool. “You got it.”

You bring the vodka bottle back over, and pour again. “You meeting someone?”

“Nah,” he tells you, taking another healthy mouthful of liquid.

“Sucks to drink alone.”

He eyes you over the rim of his glass. “So drink with me. Or is that-is that against the rules of this fine establish-establishment?”

Was that a challenge? You can’t out-drink Rick. You wouldn’t even try. But it’s a slow night and you’d like to get to know this young punk Rick a little better—

You grab another glass from the shelf underneath the bar and pour a drink for yourself. You top his off without him asking for or agreeing to it. His black painted nails are stark against the hypnotically iridescent liquid. You tink your glass against his, which he acknowledges with a cocked—and pierced—eyebrow, and you both take a swallow at the same time.

Plutonian vodka both burns and slithers down your throat like it’s in no hurry to get to your stomach, leaving a fiery track in its wake. You grimace slightly, which makes Rick chuckle.

“Not a connoisseur of what you serve?” he asks, behind another mouthful.

You copy him and empty your glass. The burn is less this time. “I’m a connoisseur of other things here in the bar. Let me buy you another?”

“Won’t say no.”

You never knew a Rick who would, and pour again.

“I should get back to these tanks.”

“Whatever.”

Against house rules, you leave the bottle on the bar.

Going back the problem at hand, you fiddle with the coupler again. There’s one part of the line that someone managed to bend so they don’t line up correctly, rendering the taps useless until it’s in place. It’s frustrating, and the vodka you drank has already gone a little to your head, making it more difficult to figure out how to fix it.

In the background you hazily realize the couple at the bar finally got the balls to approach Rick. There’s a small bit of gushing banter from them that you only half listen too, and then a sharper “piss off!” from him in a tone you have no difficulty recognizing, and the couple’s voices abruptly stop and they seem to scuttle away.

You pop your head back up.

“Is there a problem? Somebody bothering you?”

“Fuck n-no. No!” Rick replies sharply. 

The couple is leaving, throwing poisonous glances back towards him. You don’t care; they’d already paid their tab. He doesn’t care either. With a practiced hand, he pours himself another and without asking, refills your glass too.

Once again you leave the tanks and take him up on his unspoken offer. 

“I play music because I like to play music,” he announces, as if you’d asked him what the fuss was about, “not-not to have assholes fawn all over—not so assholes c-can h-h-have autographs. It’s for me, not them!”

Now the vodka you’re drinking doesn’t burn at all.

Abruptly he asks, “You a fan, too?”

His voice is accusatory.

“Of Ricks,” you answer with a sweet smile, to counter his testiness.

He pauses with his glass almost to his mouth. “The fuck?”

You immediately pull back the smile. It dawns on you he’s done intergalactic travel, but hadn’t gotten to inter _dimensional_ travel yet, so he wouldn’t know about the infinite realities, or the infinite Ricks—

“Sorry,” you apologize sincerely, “bad joke.”

“Ho-how’d you know my name?” he asks, with narrowed eyes.

“Those folks mentioned it. I overheard,” you tell him. 

Your lie is as smooth as the drink is now, and you hope he’s already had too much to remember they didn’t actually say his name. He seems to accept it and relaxes.

“So you don’t know my band?”

You shrug noncommittally.

“Thank f-fucking god.”

He doesn’t continue to elaborate on his irritation, and you don’t ask. He drums his nails against the bar and suddenly changes the subject.

“What’re you-what’s going on back there?”

You throw a glance back at tonight’s nemesis. “The CO2 tank was empty, so it needs changed. I got the old one out, no problem, but part of the attachment got bent and now this bastard of a coupler won’t reattach to the new one.”

“Hhmn,” he replies eloquently. “You gotta a wrench?”

“Yes, but that’s not the problem. The problem is the new screw is partially stripped so the line won’t grab onto it correctly—“

“Let me see.”

Without asking permission, Rick slips off his stool and walks behind the bar to join you. You’ve already broken one rule by leaving a bottle for him to help himself. You don’t think another digression will make or break your employment.

Rick inspects what you’ve been trying to wrangle.

“This is all copper? Just cold weld it,” he suggests. 

You have no idea what that means.

“Don’t try and force the two parts back together and hope they’ll hold under the pressure!” he partially explains. “All you need to do is cold w-eld them back together. They’re both copper, so you’ll need to create a vacuum around them. Then the atoms of both pieces, both copper pieces won’t know where they belong, and-and they’ll join up. S-s-simple.”

Young Rick in punk clothing _and_ still flaunting an intellect the size of the galaxy? You almost cream your panties.

“I don’t have—I mean, I can’t just make a vacuum!” you protest, instead of grabbing him and forcing yourself on him right here, behind the bar. 

“I-I can, doll,” he boasts. “But you’re gonna hafta pay for it.”

“Name it.”

“Need a place to crash tonight.”

You fidget, just to put on a show in case any co-worker is watching, then hedge, “I suppose you could take my couch.”

“Oh,” he replies blandly, even while staring you straight in the eyes, “I-I m-must have been mistaken. I thought you wanted to fuck me.”


	2. Chapter 2

You wanted to sink your fingers into that shaggy coat of his and be fucked on top of it—it’d be barbaric and wild, you thought—but the reality of it is that it’s not as soft as you expected. And this Rick prefers you lying down almost completely flat on the bed while he’s fucking you from behind, so your face is buried in the fur and it’s hard to breathe.

When his thrusts take on a decidedly uneven pattern and his moans are a little sharper, you take advantage of one of his pauses and wiggle out from underneath him.

“What the fuck, doll?” he complains. 

“You don’t get to do all the work,” you soothe. “Come on. Let me.”

He lets you pull him down onto your bed. You’d been pleased to discover a familiar-but-new body while stripping him: still as lean but more toned, fewer cracking joints but with pierced nipples to match the eyebrow, slightly darker pubic hair but trimmed. If he was surprised you seemed to know exactly just what was most pleasurable for him, he didn’t say so.

You flip him onto his back and he reaches for you as if to help you settle on top, but you shimmy out of his grasp again and between his legs instead, spreading them wide with your shoulders. Without asking permission, you drop your mouth to his cock and take him in.

He bucks a little under you.

The heady combination of a sweaty Rick and your own juices makes your mouth water as you blow him. You use one hand to hold the base of his cock steady, and occasionally giving him a twisting stroke while flicking the head with your tongue. He cries out when you do that; you’ve never met a Rick who didn’t like it.

Spit pools in the smooth plane on his pelvic bone. On one upward movement of your head, you wipe your free hand through it and then reach below his cock to cup his balls, coating them in the wet. He stills for a moment.

Your mouth releases him but you keep your hand gripping his shaft. Glancing up his body to his face, you see him looking down at you. You give him a smirk, then twist your head to take one of his balls in your mouth, applying gentle suction to it.

His head drops back to the bed and he bucks a little harder this time, but doesn’t make you stop. 

The combination of stroking and nuzzling his sack forces a keener, more desperate sound from him. You repeat your motions a few more times, then run out of breath and release him.

His moan stutter-stops.

“Fuck, doll—you’re a f-fucking tease.”

You laugh. “You’re welcome?”

He chuckles. “Come up here.”

You oblige, climbing up his slender body.

Rick kisses you. The first one, after you’d barely gotten through the portal, tasted of vodka and ash from the cigarettes he must have smoked earlier that night. The subsequent ones still had the bottom notes of alcohol, but his mouth gained the flavor of your pussy after he’d gone down on you, then became dry and stale, like you’d imagine a mouthful of dust would be once he’d snorted a line of K-Lax from a packet he’d discovered in one of his pockets.

This kiss still had a hint of vodka but nothing else; it was just the true essence of Rick. You lap at his mouth, savoring it. He smiles indulgently.

“I’m gonna-gonna take another hit, then I want you to fuck me while I’m high,” he announces, and twists away to reach your bedside table, where he’d left the rest of the powder. “You su-sure you don’t want some?”

You shake your head. You don’t need an addiction to Kalaxian Crystals; you already have an addiction to Ricks and that’s plenty.

You watch as he sits up and taps his stash into an orderly mound, leans over, and snorts one line, then two of the magenta powder. 

He drops back prone on the bed. His eyes have taken on a distinctly blue-ish color.

“Come on-come on!” he demands, grabbing at you to pull you atop of him.

Licking you hand, you lubricate his cock and then straddle him, slipping him in to your pussy in one exquisite push. Rick throws his head back and cries out, 

_“Fuck me hard!”_

Once again, you oblige. 

You rock and thrust and grind. The sound between you two is squelching wet, and he moans in time to your movements on his cock. He keeps one hand on your hip and the other clenched in the sheets. Both are white-knuckled.

The sight of Rick below you--young, a pretty flush of red creeping up his chest, writhing and panting, his blue hair splayed and entangled with the black fur of the coat--is gorgeous. You feel a climax building deep inside yourself. 

He shifts without warning, throwing off your rhythm momentarily. Digging his heels into the mattress, he shoves up into you while you’re pushing down. His grip on you pinches to an almost unbearable amount, and seated so deeply inside your pussy he howls as he empties himself into you.

That final, frantic thrust and the imagined feel of his cock pulsating inside you tips you over the edge as well. Your knees give out and you collapse on top of him, gasping for air and feeling weak from your orgasm.

His eyes are already losing their blue tint as the high from the K-Lax dissipates. He gives you a languid smile. 

“Thank you,” you tell him between panting breaths, before you realize he’s already asleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning, Rick’s hungover and strung out. His eyeliner has smudged unevenly to the tops of his cheekbones but he doesn’t fix it by washing it off or reapplying it; he just looks a combination of fatigued and dangerous. He mutely accepts your offer of a quick breakfast—eggs and black coffee, nothing fancy—and smokes a cigarette procured from a battered pack in the same pocket he’d kept the drugs. 

You want to know more about him. You’ve never delved too deeply into any Rick’s psyche or past, but you’ve also never met a Rick in his twenties. What’s his band? When does he give up the musician lifestyle and focus on science? Why does he shift his attention? What precipitated it? What about his family; when to they come into the picture?

You don’t ask.

Punk Rick won’t know what you’re talking about. He hasn’t gotten to that point in his life yet: getting married, having a kid, growing older, having grandkids. He hasn’t even made it to interdimensional travel yet. He probably can’t fathom giving up what he has now or changing that much.

As he finishes his smoke, he gets restless. You know he wants to leave.

“Thanks for fixing that line last night,” you tell him. “I never would have gotten it. I never would have thought to cold weld it, either, but you just built that self-contained vacuum around it, and had no problem . . .”

You let your sentence trail off with a chuckle.

He brightens a bit at your subtle acknowledgement of his genius. “No pr-problem, doll. Thanks for, thanks for last night.”

He gets up from the table and walks out of the room. You hear him gather his coat and shoes. When he’s back, he’s already slipped everything on.

“Here,” you say, holding out his collar. He takes it from you with a questioning look. “I took it off you while you were sleeping last night. It was pinching your neck and looked uncomfortable.”

With practiced hands, he buckles it back around his neck and nods his thanks.

“And this too.”

You hand him a flask. He looks at this with even more bewilderment. 

“Compliments of the bar. Filled with a little hair of the dog that bit you—Plutonian vodka.”

You don’t tell him you’d gone through his pockets last night after he’d passed out and were surprised _not_ to find a flask. You can’t imagine a Rick without one.

He accepts the gift with a slight smile. “Nice to-to have met you.”

“Likewise,” you say sincerely. “Have a good life Rick. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

He half-shrugs, refusing to commit to anything. There’s another pause, like he’s trying to make an internal decision, then he leans forward, kisses you chastely on the lips, and hurries out. You hear the familiar delicate sound of a portal being opened, but by the time you get to your door and open it, it’s—and he’s—gone.

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one will convince me The Flesh Curtains _don't_ have sounds similar to Ram Jam's "Black Betty" or Sweet's "Ballroom Blitz".
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this! I do plan on continuing this series; suggestions or requests accepted.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're celebrating anything tomorrow by having a big "traditional" turkey meal with your family (and possibly suffering through it), my recommendation is to daydream about young punk Rick. That's what I'll be doing! ;)


End file.
